


guttering of a flame

by rightsidethru



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Alternate Universe - Canon, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Steter - Freeform, Steter Secret Santa, Steter Secret Santa 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:54:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21895453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rightsidethru/pseuds/rightsidethru
Summary: Hey there, Little Red Riding Hood--
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 22
Kudos: 776
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development, Peter Stiles Centric, Steter Secret Santa 2019, The Steter Network





	guttering of a flame

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GracieBirdie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GracieBirdie/gifts).



> A very happy holidays to my giftee, GracieBirdie! :)
> 
> GracieBirdie mentioned that they liked Spark Stiles and Alpha Peter--both of which are my favorite tropes for Teen Wolf. I hope that you like this story. <3

_What big eyes you have,_  
 _The kind of eyes that drive wolves mad._  
 _So just to see that you don't get chased,_  
 _I think I ought to walk with you for a ways._  
 _What full lips you have,_  
 _They're sure to lure someone bad._  
 _So until you get to Grandma's place,_  
 _I think you ought to walk with me and be safe._  
[“Little Red Riding Hood”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PTzLgnT9UFI) – Amanda Seyfried (originally by Sam the Sham & The Pharaohs)

*

Shadows stretched across the bare floors of the bedroom, limed in silver and moonlight: a blanketing force to mask secrets whispered in the night—a perfect time to hide in plain sight; never seen, never noticed, breath caught as time stilled and the world slumbered away.

Stiles sat huddled in a corner of his room that wasn’t immediately noticeable from the doorway. Body curled in to make himself smaller still, he wept silently against the knees that pressed tightly against his closed eyes. The skin over his right cheek wouldn’t stop stinging, the salt from his tears a constant reminder of the shock that had lurched through him when Claudia’s hand had connected.

His mom had never hit him before. Previous punishments had been paired with a stern lecture as to why he was receiving the punishment and then put in the corner for varying amounts of time. But… _today_ … something almost _mean_ had flared to life in Claudia’s dark eyes, and her features had become twisted and ugly before the strike had landed.

Monster.

Demon.

_Not my son_ —

She had spewed venom, thick and dripping from her mouth and accompanying each word that fell flat in the air between them, and Stiles had quickly backpedaled away with a hand pressed tight to the apple of his cheek. Eyes wide and mind empty with the static of shock, it took a long moment before the words finally processed.

He ran and hid and only came out when his dad came home and everything returned to normal. (Normal _enough_ , anyway. Something dark still gleamed in his mother’s gaze, and Stiles instinctively knew then that things had changed. Some part of her had broken, and it would be years before Stiles finally realized that this was the original point of the downward spiral that was his mother’s illness.)

Further stifling his already silent sobs, the six year-old brought his palms up to rest on his knees, gaze focused as stardust suddenly lit up the darkness of his room, edging his fingers in gold. It flickered like the heart of an ember, frantically clutching at a semblance of life between catching fire and _burning_ bright. It was a star’s most innermost core, gleaming with power and light, and Stiles felt something warm run along the lines of his veins: his cheek itched and, suddenly, unblemished and unbroken skin met his fingertips’ inquisitive search. He was healed.

How could something so beautiful breed so much pain in response?

*

The first time Stiles met Alan Deaton—and then, years later, Marin Morrell—the amber-eyed boy could _feel_ the power that thrummed within them, coursing through their bodies: it sang a sweet tune, one that echoed the changing of the seasons and the rise and fall of the moon. Stiles had kept silent, watching and waiting—and perhaps a little expectant that they would reach out in turn. Control had long ago stopped being an issue for the boy, but better understanding _who_ and _what_ he was? Finally being given a word to attach to the forest fire that had taken root in his heart and set his abilities aflame…? Understanding and knowledge had always been such a crucial part of the boy’s character, and coming across blockades each and every time Stiles tried investigating further: _you will go no further_ he’d been told, over and over again.

So the boy had watched the two siblings, waiting for the sort of recognition of like-mindedness that he felt towards Deaton and Morrell—but it never came in turn. Stiles stared at the two Emissaries and they stared back, eyes blank and uncomprehending.

*

One of Stiles' biggest faults--and this was something he was fine in acknowledging, that this was a failing for himself--was that he wasn't ever able to let go. Sins and crimes were never forgiven, never forgotten: each transaction was filed away in the back of the teen's mind, remembered and lodged until Stiles decided to finally do something about it. Damage done to family (no matter the fact that they weren't always considered blood) escalated the priority of things, something that Jackson had long ago learned the first time he'd taken Scott's inhaler from him.

Stiles had ended up suspended for a week with his retaliation, but Jackson also had never tried to pull that particular stunt ever again--so Stiles considered it a win all around.

The situation with Peter, however...

The Alpha's systematic destruction of those who had murdered his family was, honestly, something that Stiles could relate to. The teen had never considered himself a _truly_ good person--that was a role more for his dad or Scott of Melissa--and the urge to utterly lay waste to those who did you harm was (not so surprisingly) relatable. Perhaps there would have even been a very real chance that Stiles would have stepped aside and let Peter do as he wished--

If he hadn't gone after Stiles' family.

Stiles met the 'wolf's crimson gaze as Peter caught the Molotov cocktail without breaking it, confident in his win and the continued blood that would be shed. Everyone's gaze remained on the Alpha--while Peter's attention remained firmly with Stiles--and it was because of that that the red-eyed 'wolf was the only one who saw the way that Stiles' fingers twitched tellingly, felt the gesture's consequences as the bottle shattered and its contents came raining down, and could only think _Checkmate._ with an amused sort of pride as he burned once more.

The amber-eyed teen never looked away.

*

_”Not all there is. Think of it like gunpowder. It's just powder until a spark ignites it. You need to be that spark, Stiles.”_

The bag of mountain ash was a heavy weight pressing against Stiles shin, tap-tap-tapping away with every small movement of his body. The bag was heavier still with the press of magic that filled the air, a solid pressure that rested patiently over Stiles’ shoulders.

The magic was already active, ready to be used: there was nothing special that Stiles truly needed to do. Just run the line around the building and keep Jackson—whatever he was—trapped inside, corralled against hurting anyone else further.

_But I’m not quite human myself_ , lay on the tip of Stiles’ tongue, lips sealed to keep the words silent. _I could be doing something more to help._

But Alan Deaton, apparently powerful druid and old Emissary to the Hale Pack, had never once seen past the awkward, sarcastic, too-smart mask that Stiles had adopted years ago. Had never seen the power that thrummed in Stiles’ veins, the same way it did him and his sister’s. Had only ever seen one hundred and forty-seven pounds of pale skin and fragile bones—human, and nothing more.

(Stiles never said his thoughts aloud, but he wondered—at that blank, unseeing stare—if there was a reason why nothing seemed able to stop the Hale fire from spreading. Why there hadn’t been more defenses for the ‘wolf pack except for a labyrinth of catacombs beneath the house. Perhaps because their Emissary _hadn’t_ been capable of anything more. Perhaps neither druid sibling had said anything about Stiles’ power because they _couldn’t_ see it.)

“ _You mean, like, setting myself on fire? I don’t think I’m up for that_ ,” is what Stiles said aloud instead, back to playing The Fool.

*

Stiles stood at the edge of the woods and watched as the Argent house became consumed in flames. Erica and Boyd had long since flown into the night, breaking through the basement window’s glass after the whiskey-eyed teen had freed them. Gerard had been less than pleased to come back to his torture room less two werewolves—and the helpless teen he’d kidnapped not quite as pathetic had he’d initially counted on.

The boy’s tongue darted out, relishing the sting that came from his split lip as the fire burned brighter still; Beacon Hills’ firefighters struggled to put out the flames, but nothing they did made the housefire burn any less. Iron flooded his mouth, thick and syrupy, but it was the satisfaction that lingered in knowing that the current head of the Argent family was finally dead and gone.

(A poetic sort of justice that echoed the damage Kate had done when she burned down the Hale house and the majority of the pack still in it.)

“When do you think the flames will finally die down?”

Stiles stilled, breath catching for an endless moment, before he glanced over a shoulder to meet Peter’s neon-bright gaze, blue stark enough to leave behind spots when Peter blinked and looked away and back towards the burning house. The man was supposed to be dead—the teen had helped put him in the ground, if only because Stiles was vicious when family was threatened, and Peter had threatened the boy who might as well have been Stiles’ brother—and yet… the teen couldn’t find it in himself to be surprised at the fact that the ‘wolf had somehow managed to bring himself back.

The sickly tinge to the moonlight-tinted spark that burned in the center of every werewolf’s chest gave testament that Peter hadn’t come back _well_. 

“Not until only ash remains.”

Peter’s smile was quick, there and gone again, and he stepped closer to the teen; Stiles refused to give way, and it was only a moment until the too-warm bulk of the ‘wolf’s body leaned knowingly against the rigid line of the teen’s. Hands surprisingly gentle, Peter caught hold of the wrist he’d offered to bite months before; a tug bared the vulnerable expanse of skin, and Stiles’ breath hitched quietly when the older man pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the pale skin. Black lines trickled up from the ‘wolf’s lips, along his cheeks and down the thick trunk of his neck, and the pain that had been lingering in Stiles’ muscles began to fade away like mist under the morning sun.

“You are certainly a marvel, sweet boy.”

*

Stiles leaned forward to rest his chin atop the chill of the metal examining table. Amber eyes watched Deaton tear apart herbs with quick, deft fingers—disassembling the plants to their core components before tucking them away in various jars to be used to heal Cora. A new cure, a new ritual, a new poultice to try: nothing had worked previously but, always, there was this hope of _maybe this time_.

“I could help, you know,” the teen eventually offered, breaking the silence that had been stretching like taffy between the both of them. “Two sets of hands mean that this’ll go faster and you can try a new cure on Cora. We’ll know sooner if this attempt will work, too, doc.”

Deaton glanced over his shoulder to meet the boy’s gaze, smile kind and expression understanding but resolute. “Unfortunately, Stiles, only someone who has magical abilities can prepare these ingredients.”

Stiles curled his fingers in towards his palm, tendons in his forearm bulging from the angry flex.

“Like I said: I could help.”

Deaton’s gaze softened, though still remained unseeing in the most crucial of ways. “Again, thank you for the offer, Stiles. But I’ve never seen any ability in you. I’m sorry—but I need to do the preparation myself.”

*

_Why?_ Stiles asked himself as he held a hand up towards the ceiling, fingers stretched wide and reaching, and stardust danced amongst the pale digits. Every magic user he’d come across had never once seen _him_ : blind, unseeing, dismissive towards the seeming human, the heart of a star burning merrily away in his chest, unacknowledged by those around him—

_Snake in the grass_ , his mother had spat at him during one of the last few days she’d managed to be mostly coherent.

\--and perhaps there Stiles had his answer.

“The Sorting Hat always liked putting me in Slytherin,” Stiles admitted to himself as his fingers curled inwards and his arm bent down so that he could rest his fist over the steady beat of his heart.

His cellphone chimed a text message, and Stiles rolled out of his bed to answer the call for help.

*

The Alpha Pack was disbanded and Deucalion had long left Beacon Hills. The British man’s eyesight had been restored and, apparently, all was now forgiven and forgotten. But Stiles had always held grudges—nothing was ever forgiven or forgotten—and his father’s panicked cries still echoed in his ears from when the teen had managed to track the Sheriff, Melissa, and Chris to the Nemeton.

Deucalion was a problem filed under ‘Later.’ There were more pressing concerns in the meantime.

Stiles sat cross-legged atop the bared trunk of the magical node, red hoodie pulled low enough to bare only the lower portion of his face. The Nogitsune that the teen had freed years ago lay curled over his shoulders, nine tails wrapped possessively ‘round Stiles’ chest. Its ears perked at hearing the first stumbling steps of someone approaching the Nemeton, and the fox’s wicked chuckle echoed throughout the empty expanse of the clearing.

What remained of Jennifer Blake—of Julia Baccari—shuffled past the treeline, movements unsteady and jerky with pain. The Darach came to a halt when she glanced upwards and finally spotted the crimson-clad teen lounging indolently at her final destination, and her ruined features twisted into a grimace of fear as her gaze met the silvery one of the Nogitsune.

“Hello, Ms. Blake,” the whiskey-eyed boy greeted lightly as he pushed back his hood to bare his face to the moonlight.

“ _Stiles?!_ ”

The shock and surprise nearly an insult—but it was a reaction that Stiles had resigned himself to long before. He quirked a sharp smile his English teacher’s way and caressed a soothing hand over the Nogitsune’s head, running fingers from snout to neck to quiet the rumbling snarl that was slowly building in the fox’s chest.

“So shocked to see me, Ms. Blake?” Stiles asked as his smile sharpened further, thin enough to cut—and intent enough to ensure that it’d _hurt_. “You kidnapped my dad, after all. Did you think that I’d just let that go, let bygones be bygones and all that crap…?”

She stuttered out a disbelieving laugh—what could the teen actually do to back up the threat that blazed in his eyes?—but the mocking sound was abruptly cut off, breath trickling out into a wet gurgle as Peter’s claws raked violently through her throat. Stiles watched the Darach fall with an impassive gaze, expression unreadable as his English teacher’s blood pooled out beneath her already cooling body, crimson liquid seeping through the ground to feed the Nemeton’s roots.

Shaking out a handkerchief to clean away the blood that now coated his fingers, Peter stepped around the dark druid’s body to approach Stiles with prowling, predatory steps. As the ‘wolf made his way closer, Stiles watched as the sickly beta spark within Peter’s chest turned crimson, flaring to life and burning hotter still.

“Hello, Alpha,” the amber-eyed teen whispered as he brushed a finger over the skin just beneath the ‘wolf’s eyes. At Stiles’ touch, Peter’s eyes glowed in triumph, the color as bright as Stiles’ hoodie.

“Hello, Emissary,” Peter murmured in answer and shifted closer still.

“Am I?” Stiles asked and tilted his head to the side in inquiry; a mocking edge curled his lips upwards even as colored balls of light slowly began to appear within the clearing, circling ‘round them both and highlighting details in rainbow shades.

“No one else would ever suit.”

Idly, as Peter’s lips once more brushed over the steady beat of his wrist’s pulse point, Stiles couldn’t help but wonder if this was what it felt like to finally be _seen_.

::end::

**Author's Note:**

> In addition to the story, I also have a piece of fanart to accompany it. Long story made shorter: I collect Asian ball-jointed dolls and two of the dolls in my collection are actually based off of Stiles and Peter. Dolls aren't everyone's cup of tea, so I didn't want to spring a photo of the boys in the middle of the story in case there are people reading who are phobic (my sisters are, so no shade about that). If you would like to see the photo that accompanies this story, you can find it [HERE](https://www.flickr.com/photos/184890385@N03/49251692196/). 
> 
> If you would like to see more of this duo (and eventually Derek and the Nogitsune once I get enough money together to create them), you can find my Instagram for my doll collection over at twistedwonderlanddolls. :)


End file.
